Weighed down by my gnawing insecurities, I examine the road covered in ice and snow before me. It’s inaccessible.
A series of expletives ensues.
I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I look around me.
I’m four miles into my 12-mile run on Independence Ave SW & 23rd. I have two cuts on the top of both my feet, a blister developing under my big toe. It’s cold and windy. I couldn’t sleep last night. My mind is racing.
I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I pause and stare out at the frozen Potomac River, the sun’s brilliant rays reflecting off the river’s glistening ice and against my face.
For a moment I think about turning back and calling it a day.
The Lincolm Memorial is within my line of vision. I figure it must be safe to run there. I nearly slip on the mounds of ice leading up to it. The only path forward is past the government buildings (they must be ploughed) and towards the West End. I gingerly step onto and past the ice.
Not that I care so much about going fast anyhow. I’m not ready to head back home just yet.
——
I’ve learned that, in running, it’s often not about the race. Marathons are a one-time event, the culmination of months of hard work and sacrifice. Of setting aside every doubt in your mind. Of running through it.
I don’t think most people realise how taxing it is to train. Of course the physicality stretches beyond our imaginations. But the mental and emotional toll it takes also goes far beyond how much we think we believe we can endure.
Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is to run with your problems, carrying the weight with you and feeling drag you back at every step.
——
I run past the State Department and wave to the security guard. Up through Foggy Bottom, the Watergate, GW Hospital and towards the West End. More snow and ice greets me near the tennis courts by Rock Creek.
A series of expletives ensures
I’m on 23rd and Q, by some protestant church and realise I’m just past halfway through my run today. I turn back. Home awaits me.
——
This is the kind of day I normally look back on when I run a marathon. Will I look back on this when I run the Avenue of the Giants in May?
The last two times I ran a marathon I wept at the finish line. Not from any sort of physical pain, but from the months (and somtimes) years of emotional pressure I felt. The dissapointments. The stress fracture, the belief I could never be a good runner again, the feeling that I’ll never be good enough to do this, more injury scares, maybe I’ll just never be good enough. Life setbacks, having to say goodbye too many times.
——
How do you enjoy a run on a day like today? When the cannons blast from the magnificent Capitol Building draped in the historic flags of the United States, when you are forced to run through barricades and navigate the icy pavement?
All whilst your insecurities have lassoed you, trying to drag you further and further towards the brink.
——
I wanted this run today to be over, but at the same time I didn’t. I love the tranquility that the icy cold brings. And I am promptly annoyed when Foggy Bottom and Eastern Market began to wake. All I can do is carry on, moving forward, and remember a lesson one teacher taught me half a lifetime ago that we all carry our own battles with us.
Carrying mine in real time, I stride forward. I watch my footing near the end of the junction lest I slip into a turning lane.
I let my battles sit within me. I bargain, deny, accept, rage, ignore. None of those are the answer, I find. So what is the answer, I ask myself.
Gosh, I wish I knew.
And so, weighed down by my insecurities, I carry on.
Closer towards Eastern Market a group of Crossfitters finish their run and high-five each other. Normally I would be turned off by their oppressive optimusm, but this time I indulge. Seeing me they line up on either side of the pavement, arms extended to high-five.
“Thank you, thank you,” I say to them in earnest, as I trudge through Mile 12 of 12.
——
Sometimes running isn’t about answeing or solving questions, or winning a battle. Sometimes it’s just about not losing it. Sometimes it’s just about prolonging that battle a little bit more, praying that soon you’ll find the answers needed to actually triumph in it.
The timeline varies, I’m afraid. What is the timeline, this time? Gosh, I don’t know. All I know is I bought myself a little more time.
But, for now, I retreat back into the safety and warmth of my apartment. My insecurities and I will run together again soon.
Fitzie’s track of the day: Lovely Day, by Big Star
And now for your links:
Alasdair Gold: “Ange Postecoglou calls for transfer help for one of his Tottenham stars and hits out at critics”
The Athletic ($$): “Attempting to make sense of a confusing Premier League season”
WSJ ($$): “The Soccer Team That Perfected the Art of Winning Without the Ball”